Thursday, October 19, 2017

Pages of Fear Blog Hop and Three Chances to Win...Oh, and a Free Book

Hey all,
I'm participating in the Pages of Fear Blog Hop. Don't know what that is? Go HERE to find out how to win 20 signed paperbacks. The secret word is hidden in this excerpt from my Kindle Scout winning novel WITCH WAYS--the book you'll score if you win the hop. You can also win a signed copy of just my book, WITCH WAYS by signing up for my newsletter. Just tell me that you did so in the comments for your chance to win. Plus, EVERYONE who signs up for my newsletter gets a free e-copy of my novella MAKING MUSIC. (The sign up is on the top righthand side of the tool bar.)

My
stomach flipped, and not because it knew lunch was going to have to wait.

“Excellent
article, Evelynn.” Mrs. Price motioned for me to take a seat.

I
pulled up a chair and saw my paper on her desk. I was surprised that there
wasn’t one red mark on it. In fact, it looked exactly as it had when I’d first
turned it in, which was surprising. Mrs. Price usually returned everyone’s papers
covered with painful scratches of red ink. Had I finally written a perfect
paper? And if so, why wasn’t there the familiar WELL DONE! scrawled across the top?

My
stomach flipped again.

Mrs.
Price slid her thick glasses up her nose. “You’ve demonstrated not only strong
writing skills, but also a true nose for news and the passion that all great
journalists need to ferret out a story and pursue it.”

I
flushed beneath her praise. “Thank you. So, I’m on the paper?”

Mrs.
Price held up her finger. “I’m afraid not.”

“But
you said I needed a great article . . .
and
you just called my article excellent!”

Mrs.
Price fished something from her drawer, stood, and carried my article to the
waste bin. Seconds later, she flicked the small cylinder in her hand and my
article caught fire. The acrid smell of smoke filled the air, as flames licked
away at my paper, making me feel sick.

Memories
of the last time I was in a school on fire flooded me while smoke and ash
lifted in the air, mingling with the smell of the dry-erase board and dusty
books.

“That’s
why what I’m about to say may surprise you.” She dropped the flaming article
into the empty trash bin. “You’ll have to write another piece.” She tossed the
cigarette lighter back into her top drawer.

“But
why?” I fought
tears and disappointment, knowing I’d never find another story as compelling as
Andrew and Lauren’s.

“I’m
sure you’ll stumble across another story, perhaps one less, shall we say,
revealing?” She raised an eyebrow at me, as if to ask if I understood what she
was trying to say.

I
absolutely did not understand what she meant.

Leaning
forward, she braced her elbows on her desk. “As you are fully aware, this
school—this community—harbors a unique and talented collection of women. The
safety of this community is dependent on discretion and trust. I’m afraid that
publishing your article may raise unnecessary questions.”

I sat back
in my chair. “Because Lauren thought she was a witch?”

Mrs.
Price pinched her lips together, but didn’t say a word.

“But
she’s dead! Nothing I can say can hurt her!”

“We
have said too much already.” Mrs. Price pushed to her feet. “If you wish a
place on the paper, you must find and write another article, a safer article. I hope, and trust, that
in time you’ll understand. And learn to be more judicious.”

I
stood slowly, my thoughts reeling.

“I
know this must seem harsh, but I can’t guarantee you a place on the paper
without a publishable article, and I will not publish an article that might garner
suspicions and unnecessary questions.”

“But I
don’t even mention witchcraft, or anything . . .”

She
lowered her eyebrows, and pointed to the door. “You have until the semester
break. I wish you well. You’ll make an excellent addition to our newspaper.”

“Thank
you?” I mumbled, feeling dismissed and confused. After gathering up my book bag
and glancing at the smoldering ashes in the TRASH bin, I headed for the door.

“Oh,
and Evelynn,” Mrs. Price began.

I
turned around.

“It’s
not necessary to be a witch to be successful at this school, and in life, but
it certainly helps.”

Outside
the door, I leaned against the wall, clutching my book bag to my chest. Down
the hall and through the open cafeteria doors came the sound of laughter, clinking
silverware, and talking—hundreds of students, each trying to be successful
academically, musically, athletically, by studying, practicing, and sweating.

She’s wrong, I
decided. Every day I make the choice of
whether or not to be a witch over and over again. Magic and witchyness don’t
have to be the key ingredients. I can be my very best self on my own.